


Pistols for Sale

by jongdae



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Flower AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 12:44:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4435967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jongdae/pseuds/jongdae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes one needs a little venom to kickstart life. Sometimes it comes in the form of little white buds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pistols for Sale

**Author's Note:**

> Flower!AU. Pistil/Stamen idea inspired by the Korean fandom trope. Here's my interpretation of it...  
> In this, Chanyeol (stamen) 's flower is a dynamic tattoo. Kyungsoo (pistil) 's flowers wrap around his body rather than grow out from it.  
> This is sort of like omegaverse, except with flowers. Everyone has a flower. Pistils can be venomous. Read on to know more.
> 
> This is version 2, revised Jul 25 2015.
> 
> warnings: sex involving flowers (ie stigmatic fluid), sex under the influence of alcohol, dynamic tattoos, self-harm (burning), very subtle mention of drug use, self-lubricating (ie stigmatic fluid), minor nameless character death, crack
> 
> Originally posted on LJ.

They stumble out of the bar, its music blasting distance, its colours lighting shadows. 

They’re both a little tipsy. Maybe one of them is a bit more tipsy than just a little tipsy. It doesn’t really matter. As long as they’re smiling and they know they’re smiling, it really doesn’t matter.

He kisses the shorter boy and laughs into the other’s cheek as they try to walk down the paved road. The streetlights and starlight join at the rooftops as smoke and dust rise from between the buildings. They turn at a corner, arms getting more tangled, fingers intertwining more firmly.

“’m so proud of ya’,” the taller rasps into the other’s ear, leaning in too close that the other smells flowers and a hint of bittersweetness he’s all too familiar with. 

The smaller lad bites his soft lower lip and just stares up, eyes gleaming with an indefinable feeling that vacillates between tenderness and quietude.

It’s been so long they haven’t been out together like this. 

 

 

Sometimes it’s tiring. 

Tiring that their schedules never meet. That their messages are often left unread because they’re so busy they don’t have a minute for themselves for hours straight, because they’re constantly knocked out, because they’re always flying alone across seas without some signal to spare.

Sometimes it saps the life out of them.

It wipes them from their senses because they spend nights in a hotel where the covers are not theirs but are familiar, where the skies are familiar but not theirs, where silence is cacophonic and the AC is quiet, unlike the one in their dorm room back home.

Sometimes they have it slow.

Amidst languid kisses, caresses, touches, they would just close their eyes and shut off the world. Feeling, remembering, re-experiencing.

And other times – times like _this_ time – when it’s been way too long, when they start missing each other so much they’d even requested songs on the radio that reminded them of road trips together, when they’re able to just finally hold hands and that alone makes them fizzy, when they don’t care if they’re being too close and too touchy—

 

 

He pushes the smaller boy atop of the car’s trunk and they kiss ardently. Hasty desperate caresses across cheeks, necks, collarbones. Low husky sweet nothings in each other’s ears. The standing boy’s hand slowly going up under the other’s signature black shirt.

“T’o fast,” the smaller moans between sharp intakes of breath, “w-we’re … going too fast—”

The taller dives in, pressing his lips against the words. “—We’re not, shh, it’s okay.”  
The younger laughs noiselessly against the other’s smile.

“W-we should … get in the car. G-go home. Get a r-room.”

“We’re drunk…” 

“ _We’re_ drunk?” 

“Yeah, I hate to break it to you, but yeah.” 

“Ahh. We _can’t_ … drive.” 

“Hmm.”

“So we’re gonna… w-walk…?”

The taller pulls away brusquely. “Walk?”

The smaller throws his head back and laughs, a heart shaping across his lips. “Right, we’re miles away, we can’t walk, s-sorry. I just—”

“—it’s okay. You’re being cute. Can I kiss you again?”

The shorter pulls the other by the loose tie and smooches their lips together, leaning back against the cool metal surface. Their mouths part slightly, and they bite at each other’s bottom lips, alternating between gentle and rough touches. They grab at each other’s hair, cheeks, clothes, whatever that can make them feel centred, grounded.

A few more kisses, and they know they’ve gone past the point of no return.

 

 

They practically fall into the car. The taller fumbles clumsily with the keys, gets a door open and flings the other one into the back seat, follows suit. Their legs tangle and their kissing chain never really breaks.

The whole car is suddenly filled with the scent of wild flowers. 

They’re sweating and the leather seats don’t help but they’re too busy to mind. 

“Oh god—,” the smaller groans uncharacteristically loudly when the other bites down on the other’s neck and then sucks and kisses it, planting a bruise. He dips his nose further down, getting a whiff of his favourite scent – wild hackberry flowers, almond milk, bittersweet cherries – all over the pistil boy’s body.

And that’s when the shorter boy feels it.

The strange titillation at the small of his back rising up, branching about, sensations twisting to newer heights, newer dimensions.

“I-it’s, ugh, nnn, s-startin—g,” he moans, sinking his head back then turning to face his left, biting down on his lips as the sensation settles slowly. 

He huffs uneasily. “F-fast— we’re fast today.”

The taller barks laughter into the other’s skin. “Good, cause I’m thorny tonight.”

There’s a pause.

“Horny? Thorny. _Horny_. HaAHAHAHa… Same … difference,” the elder concludes clumsily. The smaller boy closes his eyes and laughs silently before just glaring at the other.

“That was terrible,” he deadpans. The taller looks away bashfully but then decides to just plunge down for several more deep kisses. The younger sighs and eases into their softness.

“I know you love my unintended puns, ‘soo,” he then says quietly, and the younger just laughs.

“Ssshh, just kiss me, you dolt.”

The taller complies, but before it lasts too long, the smaller boy pushes him up and says. “I want to blow you.”

“Hmmmm— O-oh?”

But it’s not like the smaller boy really waits for permission. He’s already pushing the other back and unbuckling the belt. 

Today the taller’s underwears are fiery red.

“Tacky,” says the shorter before he mouths at the cloth, somewhere midway on the other’s manhood. The taller muffles a moan.

“Fuck, ‘soo— fuck.”

The shorter sucks a bit, bites at the cloth, lifts it away and lets go and it snaps back. He looks up, and it gives the other delightful goosebumps.

He fingers the underwear and plays with the elastic and presses butterfly kisses along the form of the shaft. The elder has his hands grabbing at his hair locks. It’s distracting sometimes because it sends tinges to the shorter’s back.

He shifts a bit because his position is a bit uncomfortable at this point: his legs are dangling up since the seats don’t offer much space. To the taller’s dismay, he even sits up and tries readjusting the passenger seat so they could have a bit more leeway for positioning. 

“I admire your patience,” the other mumbles, half-dazed. At this point, the smell of rose tea is more overwhelming than the pistil’s bird berries.

The younger repositions: the other’s long legs finally have place to settle comfortably and he crouches in between and rips off the pants and underwear so unceremoniously off the hips the other might have come right then and there.

“My roses’re gonna bloom soon, fuck,” he adds when the shorter stares at the precum dripping down. He licks his heartshaped lips before setting them on top of the head.

He kisses, then laps his tongue across before taking in the head completely. He lets it go with a pop, pumps the entire length with his hand once, twice, maybe thrice but heck it’s not like he’s counting, before diving in for a long lick on the underside of the fidgeting cock.

“Fuck, what a-a sight, augh—”

The shorter stops and brings his fingers to his lips to dab at them, a tad innocently, a tad sensually. He stares up at the other.

“Oh god if you keep this up I’m going to flower without even being in you.”

“That’s a no-go,” the younger whines feistily. He tries getting up a bit. “I want to ride you tonight.”

“You ride me every time, ‘soo.”

“I like it when you’re writhing under me, it’s nice.”

There’s a burst of rosy fragrance, and it’s so strong and overwhelming the shorter knows he’s pushing the right buttons. He slowly and lazily comes up and kisses the corner of the other’s mouth.

“I know you like it, too.”

 

 

The taller plummets forward without further ado. Their positions change drastically even though the car really won’t offer that many options: the taller is holding down the shorter onto the length of the three seats, his knees on each side, his hand already working on the pants and the other hand on the creamy thigh that reeks of almond tea.

He lifts one up and dips down a bit and intakes the aroma. The shorter squirms, and finally the hints of his flowers start to show on his pale skin: the shadow of a branch winds its way below the hip, white buds showing at its peaks.

“Nnmmmph…”

The taller ravages the thigh with sloppy kisses before putting it down and then feeling up the shorter’s tummy and chest and nipples. He lifts the shirt and enough so the other could hold it with his teeth before diving down to lick and suck at the erect stubs.

“Fuck, ‘yeol,” is perhaps what the smaller says, but his groans are stifled by his teeth still holding his own shirt. He lets go angrily with a huff and then says, “Just get on with it, my buds are going to burst.”

The elder pauses and is halfway through a smile.

“Oh god,” he says timidly, “you must be really drunk to talk pistil language. Should I be worried?”

“Oh shut up and just prep me already. I can talk pistil language whenever I fucking want.”

“Are you sober?”

“Yes, now get _on_ with i— augh.”

The elder pumps the other’s long-neglected dick. 

“Is your… stigmatic fluid…”

“God I hate that term, d-don’t talk about it or I’ll knee you. J-just finger m—mmm— screw me senseless—”

The taller kisses the other softly. “You’re talking so much. You’re being so cute.”

And before the smaller can reply, the other presses their foreheads together and whispers:

“I miss you, I love you, ‘soo.”

At this point the other just turns his head away and whimpers when he feels the elder swipe his fluids inside with a single finger.

“Msdfnfsfdsfsjh—”

He adds another finger because so far it’s smooth. He then scissors slowly.

A car passes them outside, headlights flashing through their windows and disappearing off the rear mirrors.

The taller doesn’t slow down. He digs in deeper and presses where he thinks the spot is. After two tries, he finds it and earns smothered screams. He kisses the other’s hands and he realizes a branch has strayed to it and the small signs of unblossomed flowers seem to float lightly atop of his skin. The smell of almond is mixing with the smell of his port sunlight rose fragrance and it’s starting to get to his head a bit too much.

He can feel his tattooed rose moving too, sending its vines across his skin, its thorns growing prominent.

“I’m at my edge,” he breathes. 

 

 

He pushes in, slowly at first, but soon the pace builds up and the moans mix with the garden of fragrances they are building inside the car.

“Yeol, yeol, _Chanyeol_ , augnngh.”

Chanyeol kisses Kyungsoo, deeply, pressing passionately, telling him, through them that he’s missed him so much. 

The shorter presses back just as eagerly, and it’s honestly comforting because Chanyeol knows it’s his way of saying, nonverbally, “I love you too, I miss you too, I want you too.”

He slams in harder and harder and he can feel some of the roses across his shoulder blades blossom, each one releasing a strong bubble of rose tea.

Kyungsoo then shifts his legs and Chanyeol halts a bit in movement and the semi-transparent fluid starts dropping heavily to the leather seat in significant amounts and the sight heightens his drive.

“Lie down,” the shorter says. It doesn’t take too long before he’s on top jumping off the elder’s cock, hands intertwining with Chanyeol’s so he can support himself better. He has his back against the roof, so his blossoms swivel down to his waist, almost trying to reach for their counterpart’s flowers.

He builds rhythm much better than Chanyeol does, and the air fills up with a rich smell of cherries. 

The lights outside start flickering and they dance across Kyungsoo’s collarbone, to his arm, and then out of the back window, and the sight is overpowering to Chanyeol.

 

 

The smaller arches up and comes. He trembles quietly, and Chanyeol caresses his legs. The bird cherries bloom selflessly across his skin, up his arm, around his hips and the small of his back. Some petals fall around them. 

It’s a scenery that always, _always_ , reminds Chanyeol of the first time.

* * *

Though technically, he’s referring to the _second_ first time.

Because, well, for the _chronological_ first time, it had been a drunk and … thorny … _mishap_. 

 

In his defence, they _had_ been younger, drunk, foolish, uncaring, and at the prime of their lives.

Or at least Chanyeol had been. He had been grooving against girls, boys while the music beat deafness into his oversize ears. He drank whatever came into his hands, kissed and fucked whatever had two lovely legs and beautiful pale white blossoms to contrast with his dark roses.

His types had been clearly defined back then: white flowers. Such as… magnolias. Lillies. Cosmos. Peonies. Angel trumpets.

 

So when he saw Kyungsoo, sitting lonely at the bar, drunk with vodka and some kind of exotic dangerous scent he’s never smelled before, while enveloped with timid branches of white cherry blossoms, he thought he had hit the jackpot of bloody Eden.

 

And _well_ , back then, he never really cared when people warned him against “venomous” pistils. Pistils who, once slept with, would alter the hue of one’s flowers or leaves, and more importantly, ‘lock’ them together forever.

Granted, they were also said to be ultra rare. In fact, they were so rare most people thought it was a suburban myth meant for teens who were only getting their gardens started. Nobody really thought more of it. Some threw out numbers. One in a million. One in a bajillion. What were the odds, he thought. 

 

He could always convince himself with the weakest argument.

 

Little had he known, after Kyungsoo came that night, on top of him, just like this night, abloom with white against his blushed skin, that the younger boy would lean down, tired and weary, and cry tears that fell like dewdrops on the withering flowers, apologizing continuously, “I’m sorry, … sorry… I’m… Please… I didn’t mean to…”

Chanyeol had lulled him to sleep without really thinking about anything.

 

It was by the _next morning_ , when he found Kyungsoo curled up beside him, sleeping soundly, and when he discovered that his tattooed roses were a sort of apricot creamy orange _white_ instead of their former crimson, that the playboy stamen realized that The Myth might have held some truth. That he had perhaps hit some kind of jackpot. 

The wrong kind.

The second – more important – half of the myth had been confirmed later when Kyungsoo excused himself at the door of his flat.

 

“Your previous lover…” Chanyeol had started, a hand to the back of his neck, scratching anxiously, his tattoo twitching uncontrollably. 

“… died from infidelity,” the younger finished, his tone solemn, guilty, yet cold.

“… F—”

_Fuck_ , Chanyeol had thought then, slamming the door hard.

 

 

At first it was hard because old habits died hard. 

He wanted to go to the Kims’ party but he did not want to risk getting drunk and getting one-night-stands like he always did. Because this time if he did, he’d die.

He’d _die_.

Fucking the stigmatic juices out of the magnolias or lilies would _kill_ him. He wasn’t being funny.

And he was _not_ willing to test the authenticity of it all because it was ridiculous. Death by angel trumpet blowjob. He didn’t want that on his bloody tombstone.

 

For the first few weeks, he had a few anxieties concerning his raison-d’être, his life goals, his non-existent integrity. It was a natural consequence, an almost biological reaction. He would hole up in a corner of his room, a glass of pathetic tap water in his hand, contemplating his life as is.

His life was terrible and mediocre, to say the least.

Without the booze, the party, the music, the sex. And it wasn’t like he didn’t know. It wasn’t like he didn’t know deep down that those things meant nothing. That he could be already a foot in his grave with nothing achieved, nothing really gained. That he could have both feet in his grave with only regret printed across his hands, torso, face.

He would, sometimes, touch his tattooed flowers and feel anything but ease. He’s not used to their soft orange tinge. They felt dull, boring, non-lustful. They felt honest and innocent maybe, but that wasn’t what he was looking for. 

He wanted to feel like he was born for something, something he could actually relate to. His innocence was long gone. He’s been out of Eden since his first red wine and magnolia fuck. Honesty was another thing he had long lost too. 

He should have known not to grab for something out of his league, out of his social circle. Bloody bird cherries, he would think as he screamed into his pillow.

 

Sometimes he wanted to rip his flowers off because they perplexed him so much, they made him feel uncomfortable with his own skin.

 

He had even attempted burning them with fire. The first time he cowered back because the flames made his roses quiver intensely, even at a distance, and he would almost lose his mind.

The second time he burnt and blemished a leaf that turned brown, scarring the back of his hand. He barely muffled his scream when he felt his tattoo go berserk because of it. It twisted in pain, and the pain would grow across, inch by inch, hitting his nerves to their very roots.

 

The third time he wasn’t too conscious. Maybe he was too stoned but maybe he was also bordering soberness. He took a lighter, and he fumbled for a match only to realize he didn't need one. He stared at the red and blue flame and he brought it closer and closer.

 

That was when Kyungsoo showed up, out of the blue, around two months later, rapping at his door at an hour past midnight.

 

 

Chanyeol capped the lighter in frustration and then flung a bottle of Perrier across the room, drunk on water and irritation.

He opened the door, a frown to his forehead, curses on his mouth.

“Hi,” Kyungsoo had said, eyes dark and firm. Chanyeol recoiled at first because he wasn’t expecting to see him. At all. 

“Hi,” he had barely managed, but his tone was still nothing shy from being vile.

“I came to check on you…” the shorter didn’t look away although Chanyeol could tell he was starting to breathe a bit more heavily, a bit more nervously.

“At one a.m.. Sure.”

 

 

“I… had a bad feeling,” the venomous pistil muttered.

“You had a fucking bad feeling.” Chanyeol and incredulity were at their best, but they didn’t put off Kyungsoo as much as the former playboy had wanted to.

“Put that lighter away.”

Chanyeol rolled his eyes and scoffed.

“Why do you even fucking care—”

“—Put it _away_ ,” Kyungsoo begged, his flowers ashaken, his hands going for the item, but Chanyeol was too tall for him. To his surprise, the smaller boy took the opportunity to walk into the flat and close the door behind him.

“—Don’t just walk into people’s apartme—”

The smaller had tiptoed up and shut him up with a kiss. A kiss Chanyeol couldn’t fight back against because it was so sudden and so… _earnest_.

 

So tender. So _hesitant_ , so fleeting that Chanyeol’s anger felt like it had been drenched in a squall, cooled off in soothing winds.

Kyungsoo had let go first and they both gasp a bit for carbon dioxide and oxygen.

 

“Let’s start over,” Kyungsoo had whispered, still on his toes so they could be nose to nose, eyes to eyes, heart to heart. “I’m sure we can work this out.”

 

“I’m Do Kyungsoo. Nice to meet you.”

 

 

 

It was the first time Chanyeol had experienced tenderness.  
It was the first time Chanyeol had felt cared for.  
It was the first time Chanyeol had fallen in love. 

 

His life slowly came back on track, after that. 

A month later, Chanyeol got informed through the phone that he had gotten a DJ job at a radio station.

They had both looked and searched together. Newspaper ads, connections, whatever. 

Kyungsoo had helped Chanyeol ease off from the alcohol, had helped him control his chain smoking habits, had helped with the flowers that were withering on his balcony, and the ones withering at the core of his heart.

He was laughing again, and at one point his floral scent also came back to him, overtaking the smell of nicotine and cheap beer. And it wasn’t some kind of lustful scent, but something more idiosyncratic, more characteristic, more him.

They kissed several times in between, whenever they were coincidentally close – they were often _coincidentally_ close, now that Chanyeol thinks about it. 

Sometimes it was at the end of a movie at the cinema. Sometimes it was when they were in the car after a long quiet drive. Sometimes it was when they woke up in the morning, cuddled together under the blankets, staring into each other’s eyes.

 

They would hold hands. They would nuzzle together. They would laugh together.

At first, everything was nonverbal. They let their touches do the talking. They let their eyes say what they were still too reticent to say.

 

Then one day, almost a year after, they found themselves at the very bar they had first met. The bar where Chanyeol had been wild and brainless and ready to make mistakes. Where Kyungsoo had been drinking to drown his sorrows about his first love gone because of his bird cherries’ poison.

They got a few drinks nonetheless. Laughed about it together because it was so long ago. The negative feelings they had back then weren’t weighing them down anymore.

They danced a bit. They were having fun. They listened to the beat of the music and the beat of their hearts. They swayed against each other, they looked only at each other. 

 

Then they headed home with sprightly adrenaline. They left the car at the bar, called for a cab. They kissed languorously in the backseats.

 

They tumbled into their flat, not bothering to switch on the lights. They had their first time against the door.

 

And it was when they were finished, sitting on the floor, backs against a wall, hair dishevelled, shoulders against the other’s, arms linked, fingers entwined, that they confessed.

* * *

Chanyeol’s roses bloom luxuriously across his skin. The tattoo shines and he feels lightheaded, unburdened, weightless.

 

 

They look out from the backseats sleepily, at the river in front of them reflecting streetlamps that line up the quiet boulevards. Their hands are clasped loosely together. Petals are peppered left and right, mixed with the fragrance.

 

“Did you listen to my radio show last night?”

Kyungsoo nuzzles into his shoulder comfortably. “Mmm? No, sorry, I was rehearsing.”

Chanyeol sticks his tongue out. “Well, you just missed me putting up one of the songs you sang for an OST. I was also talking about you and your lovely white buds!”

Kyungsoo laughs soundlessly, looks away and says playfully: “Ah?”

“You’re just going to ‘ah’?”

“I’m just going to ‘ah’.” 

The tone is still playful, and that’s when Chanyeol catches on.

“Liar.”

Kyungsoo grimaces mischievously. 

 

 

“When’s your next flight at, actor Do Kyungsoo?”

Kyungsoo buries his heartshaped smile into the other’s chest. “I think it’s at five hours from now, haha, fuck my life.”

 

They exchange a soft kiss as silence walks by. Chanyeol then whispers lightly.

 

 

“We still got time.”

 

The smaller boy rests his head against the other's shoulder.

 

 

“Yeah. We still do.”


End file.
